


If I Fall

by castielofasgard



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Smut, Secret Relationship, Smoking, Surprisingly this fic will not be entirely painful, Tragic Romance, Trauma, Violence, probable historical inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6649618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielofasgard/pseuds/castielofasgard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the trenches of the Great War, Clint Barton meets a snarky young private named Pietro Maximoff. What starts out as friendship blossoms into a secret romance that would change both their lives forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> i've been planning this fic for a really long time and finally could wait no longer to start writing it. yes i've got unfinished fics that i need to work on. but i just couldn't keep sitting on this fic and waiting for "the right time". the right time is now. i hope it lives up to what i've dreamt for it.
> 
> (also, the first chapter is not what the rest of the fic will be formatted like. so don't worry, this ain't a first person fic. just using this format as a dramatic device to open with :))
> 
> [Fic title is a lyric from "The Ghost of You" by My Chemical Romance]

 

_Dear Natasha,_

_By the time you read this, I will be gone. I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye properly. It would have been too hard for both of us if I had. I know that things have been difficult for you since I came back. The war changed a lot of things, including me. I said once that I would tell you what happened to me over there. You deserve to know exactly why I came back so different. I don’t believe I’d have been able to say it out loud, even if I had the chance, so I decided to write it down, every word of it._

_I suppose the best place to start is the beginning…_

 

 


	2. The Journey Over

Clint stood on the deck of the ship as it pulled away from the dock, watching the fiery red of Natasha’s hair shrink smaller and smaller the farther away he got. When at last he could see her no more, he turned away, putting on the military hat he had clenched in his hand. He glanced around the deck – a few other nervous young soldiers still lingered at the railing, refusing to leave until the last glimpse of their homeland was out of sight. Everyone else on board had already scattered, either to their cabins or to the front of the ship so they could be the first ones to see France’s shores. 

Clint didn’t think he’d be joining them. Honestly, what he wanted right now was to be alone somewhere. He was afraid he might cry, and he didn’t want to get a reputation for being a coward before he’d even set foot on a battlefield. Pointedly avoiding his fellow soldiers, he made his way below decks and found himself a nice dark supply closet. He had just closed the door behind him when he heard a quiet sob from the back corner. Apparently his idea wasn’t as original as he thought.

“Hello?” he said tentatively.

“Ah damn….” a thickly-accented voice responded.

“Um… are you alright?” Clint asked.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to offend you but… are you a stowaway? It’s just… your accent… I have to ask… you’re obviously not from England…”

“Neither are you.”

“Fair point,” said Clint. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m not a stowaway. I enlisted same as you,” said the man.

“Alright. Just wanted to be sure…”

“So what _is_ a Yank doing in the British army?” the man asked.

“My family moved here from New York when I was a child,” Clint replied. “What about you?”

“Same situation. Though not from New York obviously.”

“Where are you from? If you don't mind my asking.”

“Not at all. I’m from Sokovia.”

“That’s Eastern Europe, right?”

“Right.”

They fell silent for a little while and Clint heard the other man shift slightly, though he still couldn’t see him.

“So… what are you doing in the closet?” he asked finally.

The man chuckled.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said. 

“Well, I reckon our answers will be about the same,” said Clint.

There was a solemn pause.

“Are you frightened too?” the man asked.

“Terrified.”

“I’ve heard stories… about some of the boys who’ve come back already, the ones who’ve been wounded…”

“Don’t listen to ‘em,” said Clint. “Never listen to the horror stories. I mean, _I_ listened to them, but I’ve never set a very good example for anyone so…”

“Sure you have,” the man said.

“Kid, you’ve know me for all of three minutes.”

“You sound like a trustworthy role model.”

Clint laughed.

“Hey kid, what’s your name? I forgot to ask,” he said.

“Pietro Maximoff.”

“I’m Clint. Clint Barton.”

“Good to meet you, Clint.”

“Good to meet you too, Pietro.”

“I’m glad you found me in here,” said Pietro. “I feel much better now.”

Clint smiled.

“Me too.”

They fell silent once again. It was several minutes before Clint spoke again.

“Well… I suppose we should probably get out of the closet now.”

“Do we have to?” Pietro joked.

Clint chuckled.

“I guess we could always just hide in here until we get back to England.”

“I have a feeling we might get in trouble for that.”

“Probably.”

“Fine. Out of the closet we go,” said Pietro.

Clint pushed himself to his feet and opened the door, blinking slightly in the light as he got out and stepped aside for his companion. There was a great deal of shuffling and the unmistakable sound of a falling broom, then Pietro stepped out into the light. 

Clint stared. He couldn’t help it. Pietro was not at all what he’d expected. He was tall – about an inch or so taller than Clint – and thin and incredibly young, probably no more than twenty-three years old. He was rather pale, a fact only emphasized by the mop of messy white-blond hair that poked out from beneath his hat. He wasn’t clean-shaven as most young men were, but his facial hair was neatly groomed and drew attention to his strong jawline. But most remarkable were his eyes. They were blue, so bright blue Clint felt as though he was gazing into two little patches of a clear country sky.

“You alright?” Pietro asked.

Clint blinked. Damn it. Pietro had noticed him staring, hadn’t he?

“Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” he said, far too quickly.

“You looked a little like you’d been hit over the head,” Pietro smirked.

_I feel a bit like that too_ , Clint wanted to say. But instead he let out an awkward half-laugh.

“I’m fine, I’m spectacular.”

Pietro grinned and there was a strange little glint in his eyes that was somewhere between playful and contemplative.

“Well, I’m pleased to have met you, Mister Barton,” he said. “I hope we meet again.”

“So do I.”

They shook hands, then Pietro turned and sauntered off. Clint watched him go, his mouth dry, but his heart light as a feather.


	3. The Same Mud

After the ship finally pulled into the French harbor, the soldiers boarded a train to be taken out to the countryside. Clint searched the train for an empty compartment to settle down in, but with no luck. He had nearly reached the back of the train when he found a compartment with only one other man inside. He slid open the door and poked his head in.

“Hello, do you mind if I join you?” he asked.

The other man looked up and grinned.

“Not at all,” he replied, gesturing to the seat across from him.

Clint came inside and stowed his bag on the rack above, then sat down. He glanced briefly out the window, then turned his attention to his new companion. He was around Clint’s age, maybe a year or two older, handsome with dark hair, intelligent eyes, and the unmistakable air of a man with a title.

“So, what’s your name?” the man asked. 

“Clint Barton.”

“Pleasure. I’m Lord Tony Stark. You can just call me Stark though, if you like. No need to bother with ‘your lordship’ or any of that nonsense.”

“‘Lord’, huh? You couldn’t pull some strings and get out of this debacle?” Clint said.

“Didn't want to,” Stark replied. “King and country and all that, you know. What about you? Why did you enlist?”

Clint shrugged.

“King and country too, I suppose,” he said. “Though I could rather do with the pension.”

Stark chuckled.

“So what are you lord of anyway?” Clint went on.

“My father is the earl of the Stark estate in Worcestershire.”

“You’re not saying you’re Lord Howard Stark’s son?!” said Clint in surprise.

“How many Lord Stark’s did you think you were in Britain?” Stark said.

“Honestly, not that many,” said Clint. “What’s that like, having Lord Howard Stark for a father?”

“Rather hellish, actually.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I manage,” said Stark. “And I don’t have to deal with him nearly as much lately, at least. I got married recently and we decided to move into a cottage on the estate rather than stay in the manor.”

“I can’t blame you,” said Clint. “Congratulations on the marriage, by the way. Shame you’ve got to come out here so soon afterward.”

“She understands. Worries incessantly, but she knows I want to fight.”

Just then, the compartment door slid open again and a young black man looked in, clearly nervous.

“Sorry, don’t mean to bother you. But everywhere else is full, so… may I join you?” he asked.

“Of course, there’s plenty of room,” said Stark. “I was just telling Barton here about my wife.”

The young man smiled so brightly and with such relief that Clint couldn’t help suspecting he’d been turned away from a few other compartments on his way here. 

“You’re married?” he said, taking a seat and turning to Stark with earnest interest. “What’s her name?”

“Pepper.”

“Wonderful name.”

“Speaking of which, what’s yours?”

“Sam Wilson.”

“Lord Tony Stark.”

He held out his hand to Sam, who hesitated, eyes wide, before taking it. Clint laughed.

“You probably could’ve left off the ‘lord’ bit, Stark,” he said.

“He’s going to figure out who I am anyway, might as well get it over with,” said Stark. “Besides, what’s it matter that I’ve got a title? We’ll all be covered in the same mud soon enough.”

 

A couple hours later, the train pulled into the station and they all unloaded. They were still several miles away from the battlefield, but this was as far as the train tracks went, so they were to be assigned to trucks based on their regiments for the rest of the journey. Clint had been worried that he’d be separated from his new friends at this point, but it turned out both Stark and Wilson were in the same division as him. They boarded the truck and sat down, surrounded by their fellow soldiers. 

As the truck rumbled down the road, Clint glanced at the man in the seat across from him and was met by a familiar pair of blue eyes.

“Pietro? Pietro Maximoff!” he exclaimed. “You’re in the 107th too?”

Pietro grinned.

“Yes I am. I knew we’d meet again.”

“You two know each other?” Sam said.

“Yeah, we met on the ship,” said Clint. 

He made introductions, then turned back to Pietro, unable to hide his joy.

“What are the odds, eh?” he said. 

“I guess we were just meant to know each other,” said Pietro. “I’m going to take this as a good sign. Maybe this war will be a bit less awful than I thought.”

“Look at the lot of us, though,” said Stark. “We could star in a novel. A lord, a bartender, and a couple of immigrants, off to save the world.”


	4. The Captain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like to apologize profusely for the unexpected hiatus i took from writing this. i'm working on staying focused on single writing projects instead of running off to start new fics and abandoning wips so updates should be happening with relative regularity now!

At last the truck came to a stop and the soldiers of the 107th unloaded. Waiting for them were two officers. One man, the captain, was tall and blond with a chiseled jawline and such an air of authority it was a little overwhelming. The other man was standing just behind him, a subordinate but clearly still in charge; he had brown hair that was combed and parted so perfectly it looked more like he was going to the theatre than to war, and blue eyes that seemed to have something permanently sad about them. 

Clint and his new friends gathered before these two men along with the rest of the division and awaited their instructions. The blond man stepped forward and looked around at them all with the slightest hint of a smile, as though he approved of his soldiers and was proud of them already. A little of Clint’s nervousness melted away.

“Welcome to the107th,” he said. “My name is Captain Rogers, and this is my second-in-command, Sergeant Barnes. You will take your orders from him if I’m not around. No doubt all of you have heard stories of what it’s going to be like out here. They’re all wrong. It’s much worse. There’s no point sugarcoating it for you. But I know you boys can take it. I’ve read the reports from your training and you’re some of the finest soldiers our army has to offer. I know you’ll make me and our country proud.”

He walked away, leaving Sergeant Barnes to lead them to their assigned stations. Barnes ushered them away from the drop-off point and down into the trenches. Clint swallowed hard. He had heard rumors of the conditions in the trenches but the truth was beyond what he had imagined. The second he stepped off the ladder, he was nearly ankle-deep in mud. The air smelled of sweat and earth and gunpowder and some other sickly scent he couldn’t quite place. The men they passed all looked gaunt and pale. A few smoked cigarettes or shared drinks from a flask, but all watched the newcomers with pity in their eyes.

Barnes led them to the barracks and showed them their assigned rooms. They were more like hovels, really, just holes dug into the trench walls and reinforced with planks of wood. Clint was glad to discover he had been assigned with Pietro, and right next door were Stark and Wilson. At last he’d have a few friends close at hand to distract him from the horrors.

“Hell of a place, isn’t it?” Pietro said as they set up their tiny room.

“You’ve got the ‘hell’ part right, that’s for damn sure,” said Clint.

He sat on the edge of his cot and took out a little framed photograph of Natasha, staring down at it a moment before setting it on the crate he’d been given as a nightstand. Pietro watched him with a strange look on his face.

“Is that your wife?” he asked.

“My sister,” said Clint. “Well. Adopted sister.”

Pietro smiled.

“I have a sister too. Wanda. I haven’t got any pictures of her though.”

“I’m sorry,” said Clint.

“It’s alright. She gave me this instead.”

Pietro pulled a thin chain out from under his uniform, revealing a small silver key.

“It doesn’t go to anything, or at least not that I know of,” he said. “She said she found it on the ground the day I enlisted. Said it was a good sign. That I’d come home.”

Clint smiled sadly as Pietro tucked the chain back into his shirt.

“A good luck charm, eh?” he said. 

Pietro nodded.

“So what’s your sister’s name?” he asked.

“Natasha.”

“Pretty name. She’s quite pretty too.”

“Hey, don’t go gettin’ any ideas,” Clint teased.

“Oh, you’ve got nothing to fear from me,” said Pietro.

“Already got a girl?”

“Lord, no. Not really my thing, you know.”

Clint eyed him curiously, not entirely sure what he meant.

“What about you?” Pietro asked when Clint didn’t respond. “Have you got a girl?”

“No, um… I was never really interested,” said Clint.

“In women or in romance?”

Clint stared at him for a moment. He felt suddenly nervous, but he couldn’t explain why.

“Both, I suppose,” he said. “To be perfectly honest, I was always too busy to be bothered with any of that.”

Pietro smirked and Clint started to suspect what he meant before.

“So…” he said, measuring his words carefully. “Is it just girls that aren’t your thing, or romance in general?”

Pietro’s smirk was positively wicked now.

“Just girls.”

Clint glanced over at the thin slab of wood that blocked the entrance of their hovel in place of a door, then back at Pietro. He really wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that, and the way Pietro was looking at him was all kinds of distracting. He floundered in silence for a moment, then suddenly there was a dull knock on the door. 

“I’ll get it,” said Pietro.

He got up, casting one last smirk back at Clint as he went, and pulled aside the wooden plank to reveal Stark and Wilson.

“Hello, boys,” said Stark brightly. “Mind if we join you?”

“We brought gifts,” Sam added.

He held up a pack of cigarettes and Stark held up a bottle of what looked like very expensive whiskey. 

“I’m game if you are, Barton,” said Pietro.

“Well I’m not about to pass up free alcohol,” said Clint. “Come on in.”

They all packed into the tiny room, Pietro and Sam on the floor, Clint and Tony on the cots. 

“I haven’t any glasses, so we’ll just have to pass the bottle around,” Stark said, breaking the seal and unscrewing the cap. “What shall we toast to?”

“Toasting to our health might be a bit much to hope for,” said Sam. “How about… to life?”

“I like it,” said Clint.

“To life!” said Stark.

He raised the bottle and the others echoed the toast, then he took a swig before passing the bottle to Pietro. They sat in silence for a while as the bottle travelled around the circle, then Stark spoke up.

“So. What do you all think of our captain?” he asked. “He seems rather the self-righteous, patriotic type, don’t you think?”

“I like him,” said Sam, lighting a cigarette.

“Me too,” said Clint. “A little intimidating, maybe, but he's the kind of man you want to follow.”

“Well put,” Sam said.

“What about the sergeant?” Pietro said. “Do you think he talks?”

“Oh, I’m sure he does. He doesn’t much look like a soldier though,” said Clint. “Too pretty. More like the types of boys they get to play soldiers in films.”

He couldn’t help glancing at Pietro, who was smirking at him again, a cigarette between his lips. Clint took the whiskey bottle from Stark and took a drink.

“It's strange, you know,” said Sam. “We’re just sitting here smoking and drinking and gossiping like we’re in a pub, when less than a mile away, the Germans are getting ready to blow us up. Any moment could be our last, yet life goes on as normal.”

“About as normal as it can get when you’re living in a giant mud puddle,” said Pietro.

“All the more reason to drink and smoke,” Stark said.

Clint laughed and raised the bottle.

“Hear hear!”


	5. Waiting Game

Their first night in the trenches was peaceful, but it didn’t matter. Clint couldn’t sleep. He kept expecting to hear the popping of machine guns or the blast of a bombshell. And even when he managed to drag his mind away from those thoughts, the cold continued to keep him awake. He was up the second the first glint of dawn crept into their hovel. Sam had left them some cigarettes, so he grabbed one from the little stack between their beds and lit up, pulling his blanket tight around his shoulders as he watched the light grow brighter between the slats in their makeshift door.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pietro sit up and rub his eyes. His already messy hair stood up at all angles, making him look a bit mad. Clint let out a stream of smoke and turned to offer him a tired smile.

“Get any sleep?” 

“Not much,” said Pietro. “You?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Clint shrugged.

“I figure it’s normal for everyone on their first night,” he said. “I’ll just have to wear more layers tonight.”

“You were cold?” Pietro asked with a lopsided grin.

“Freezing. Weren’t you?”

“I’m used to the cold. It snowed a lot in Sokovia and our flat in London is drafty. Still, I’m not looking forward to winter.”

“Shit, it’s going to get worse…” Clint groaned.

He took another drag and sighed heavily. The cloud of smoke hung in the air, made thick by the contrasting cold.

“Well, if it gets too bad, we can push our cots together and keep each other warm,” Pietro suggested.

Clint raised an eyebrow at him.

“Or not,” Pietro added quickly. “If that makes you uncomfortable.”

“No no, not at all,” said Clint. “I’m just not quite sure what to make of you yet.”

“I’m… not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”

“Honestly, neither am I.”

He snubbed out his cigarette and got out of bed, shivering at the fresh wave of cold. They both combed down their hair and donned their hats before grabbing their rifles and stepping out into the morning. Clint stretched, wincing at his already sore back. It felt good to stand up straight after being cramped in that tiny room all night.

They walked in silence as they went to pick up their morning rations. The sky was clear, giving them plenty of sunlight but making the air bitingly cold. A light breeze whistled overhead, but the walls of the trenches kept them protected. 

Once they’d gotten their breakfast – flavorless porridge and weak, watery coffee – Clint and Pietro found a bench and sat down to eat. The bench sank a little into the mud under their weight but they ignored it, sitting shoulder to shoulder, that one point of shared body heat enough to warm them just a little. 

“I wonder how much time is spent just like this,” Pietro said suddenly. “Just waiting.”

“More than you’d expect.”

Clint and Pietro looked up at the source of the new voice. It was Sergeant Barnes. He leaned against the wall of the trench across from them, a tin mug in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

“Don’t get up,” Barnes said quickly, waving his cigarette at them as they both attempted to get to their feet. “I don’t care much for all those decorous rules about standing for your superiors and all that. None of that matters down here. Though I’m not saying you should ignore it with the captain. Just me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Clint.

Barnes smirked, his eyebrow quirking up slightly in amusement. 

“What are your names again?” he asked.

“Barton.”

“Maximoff.”

“Right. Well, boys, there may be a lot of waiting down here, but don’t let it lure you into complacency. We could be attacked at any moment.”

With that, he drained his mug and left them, a thin trail of smoke lingering in his wake.

“Well then,” said Pietro. “That was interesting.”

“I’ve never met a more jaded man in my life,” Clint said. 

Once they had finished their breakfast, they started back toward their barracks. They were about halfway there when a commotion was heard overhead and a voice shouted,

“Hold your fire!”

Clint and Pietro turned in time to see three men leap down into the trench just a few feet away. One of them, the youngest, was being held up between the his two companions. Blood soaked the front of his uniform and a long gash marred one side of his face. Clint swallowed hard, a pit forming in his stomach. The boy couldn’t have been a month older than eighteen.

Just then, Sergeant Barnes pushed his way through the small crowd that had formed. The two uninjured soldiers saluted as best they could, still keeping a tight grip on the boy.

“At ease,” Barnes said. “Glad to see you three made it, though not quite in one piece. We were beginning to worry you’d been captured, Coulson.”

“We had a run in with some German scouts to the east, sir,” the man named Coulson said. “We had to take a detour.”

Barnes nodded.

“Take him to Doctor Banner, then report to Captain Rogers and I.”

“Yes, sir.”

They saluted again, then half-carried the young soldier past Clint and Pietro, and vanished around a corner. Clint glanced back at Sergeant Barnes just in time to see him disappear back into the crowd. Clint turned to Pietro. He was wide-eyed and looked a little like he might be sick.

“You alright?” Clint asked.

“He’s just a kid,” said Pietro, his voice hoarse. “What’s he even doing out here?”

“You only have to be eighteen to enlist,” said Clint. “He must’ve gone in on his birthday or something…”

“God… and I thought _I_ was too young for this…”

Clint clapped him on the shoulder.

“Come on.”

They went back to their barracks and stood outside together, smoking and soaking in the late autumn sun. They didn’t speak for a while, both too deep in their thoughts. Clint glanced over at Pietro every once in a while. He was staring off at nothing in particular, his eyebrows knit into a little frown, burning his way through his cigarette so fast that it would likely be gone within minutes. 

From the moment Clint had first laid eyes on him, there had been something about Pietro that had drawn him in, a youthful energy, the way his blue eyes gleamed. But standing there like this, surrounded by a halo of cigarette smoke that made him seem to glow as the sunlight beamed down on him… he was positively beautiful. 

Clint took a long drag on his cigarette and forced himself to look away. He knew if he stared, it would make things awkward between them. And yet… the way Pietro had talked the night before… perhaps it wouldn’t.


	6. First Action

Nearly a week went by in tense silence. Scouts came and went, but there wasn’t a single attack, and it was putting everyone on edge. Everyone knew that the longer they went without a fight, the more brutal it would be when the next strike came. But they had no choice but to sit and wait.

Meanwhile, Clint was finding himself increasingly fascinated by Pietro. They still hardly knew each other, but every hour they spent together only drew Clint in further and filled him with overwhelming curiosity about this charming, sarcastic, and strangely alluring young man. It was lucky they shared a room, because he found himself wanting to spend every waking moment with Pietro and the few times they were apart, he thought of little else but him.

Admittedly, he had no idea what to do with any of these feelings. Pietro had all but confessed that he was attracted to men, but this was entirely new territory for Clint. He’d always been too busy trying to please his parents and, when they died, trying to provide for himself and Natasha, to think about romance. It had always just been expected that he’d someday find a girl and settle down to start a family. But now, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he’d more often found himself admiring men than women. And after all, hadn’t he been stricken quite dumb the first moment he lay eyes on Pietro?

 

The last dusky hints of sunlight had faded from the sky and Clint, Pietro, Sam, and Tony were sitting outside, smoking and watching the stars begin to show themselves. It was quiet – the only sounds were the occasion snippets of distant conversations and laughter. The four of them weren’t talking much, and Clint’s eyes kept wandering over to Pietro. The pale moonlight was just as flattering to his features as the morning sun, and the wreath of smoke that lingered around his head made him look ghostly, like some ethereal spirit.

Clint forced himself to look away, worried that someone might catch him staring. He took a drag of his cigarette, which had burned itself nearly down to the butt without him noticing, and sighed heavily. As he watched the cloud of smoke begin to dissipate, a loud sound broke the silence, like a thunderclap cut short.

“Incoming!” someone shouted.

For a fraction of a second, panic gripped him. Then he and the others dove for cover. Not a moment later, the shell landed. It hit several yards from the front line of trenches, but Clint could feel the impact. A shower of dirt and shrapnel rained down. Then there was silence.

The lull was just long enough that Clint wondered if it was already over. He hadn’t quite started to relax when the shouting began again, orders being called out; a call to action. Everywhere he looked, his fellow soldiers were taking up their weapons. Clint steeled himself and grabbed his rifle. He looked over at Pietro, who had gone pale, his grip on his gun so tight that his knuckles had turned white.

“Ready for this?” Clint said.

“Hell no,” said Pietro.

Then they followed the others out of the trenches and into the action. They stayed low to keep themselves from being easy targets, but already there were several men who hadn’t been so lucky. Many of the fallen soldiers were still alive, groaning in pain and clutching bleeding bullet wounds, but a few were clearly dead. Clint very deliberately kept his eyes ahead. 

The battlefield was organized chaos; the only light was from the moon, which cast shadows over everything and made it difficult to tell what anything was. Up ahead was a tangled barbed wire fence that separated the two armies, keeping them from each other. They would never have to meet their enemies face to face. They were all just man-shaped targets scrambling around in the mud. The sharp coils glinted in the moonlight and occasionally an eery metallic _ping_ would ring out as a bullet glanced off the wire.

Clint was overwhelmed, but some instinct hammered into him from his training kept him fighting. Soon he found himself taking cover behind a boulder, side by side with Sam Wilson. He had lost track of Pietro, but the urgency of the battle forced his worry to remain at the back of his mind, scratching at his consciousness for attention like a caged animal.

“How you doing, Barton?” Sam asked as they both took a moment to catch their breath.

“Been better,” Clint replied. “You?”

“Me too.”

He stood up, using the rock as a rest for his rifle, and took a few shots before crouching back down. 

“I suppose it’s my turn now,” said Clint.

“Damn right, I’m not doing all the work here,” Sam teased.

Clint mirrored Sam’s motions, resting the barrel of his gun in a crevice of the boulder as he took aim and fired. He couldn’t tell for sure if it was him, but as he ducked back behind the rock, he thought he saw his target fall.

Clint had no idea if minutes or hours had passed by the time the chorus of gunfire trickled out into silence. Tentatively, he and Sam crept away from the boulder. After several minutes of slow progress, darting from place to place to stay under cover, they made it back to the trenches and leapt down. A few weary soldiers loitered nearby, cleaning mud from their rifles and indulging in a much needed drink.

As the adrenaline of the battle began to wear off, Clint’s anxiety over Pietro shoved its way out in full-force. He and Sam had sought cover behind a few dead bodies on their way backfrom the battlefield, but none of them had sported Pietro’s distinctive white-blond hair. That didn’t mean much, though. There were still several other fallen soldiers that could have been Pietro. 

He remained as stoic as he could as he and Sam made their way back to their barracks. They turned the corner and Clint let out a sigh of relief. Pietro was pacing, his hair messy and mud-streaked, while Stark sat on a crate, his head in his hands. The moment Clint and Sam appeared, they both visibly relaxed. Pietro rushed forward and dragged Clint into a stifling hug. Clint froze for a moment, surprised, before reciprocating.

“Thank god, I was afraid you were dead,” Pietro said.

“I was worried you might be, too,” said Clint. 

Pietro pulled out of the embrace, a bit sooner than Clint would have liked. For a second it looked as though there were tears in his eyes, but then he grinned and turned to Sam.

“Don’t think I wasn’t worried about you too, Wilson,” he said. 

“Thanks, Maximoff,” Sam chuckled. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

 

Half an hour later, Clint and Pietro sat in their room, a single candle dwindling down to a stub between their cots. There was an odd tension in the room and neither of them seemed to be willing to acknowledge it first.

“You alright?” Clint asked at last.

Pietro just shrugged.

“You?”

“There’s… something on my mind, actually,” Clint said.

He suddenly felt almost as anxious as he had during the battle. He glanced over at Pietro, who was watching him with his head cocked to one side, a curious frown on his face.

“I was… I was really worried about you today,” said Clint. “I mean, I expected to be. We’re friends, and this is a war, anything could happen. But… well… I’ve grown rather attached to you since we got here. And… today… I was suddenly very terrified of losing you. Just the idea of you being dead… I could barely handle it.”

He looked over at Pietro again. The little frown had turned to a soft smile.

“What do you mean?” Pietro asked quietly.

“Honestly… I’m not really sure,” Clint admitted. “I care about you in a way I’ve never experienced and don’t really understand. I’ve discovered that I never want to be apart from you. I want to know you in ways I’ve never wanted to know another person before.”

“I think I understand,” said Pietro. 

“Really?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

Clint stared at him a moment, considering.

“There’s something else I’ve been wanting to say,” he said. “Something I want to ask you.”

Pietro nodded. Clint glanced at the door and lowered his voice so it was barely more than a whisper.

“Can I kiss you?”

Pietro smiled, a warmth in his eyes that Clint hadn’t seen before.

“Yes,” he said. “Please.”

Clint didn’t move right away. He stared at Pietro, his heart beating wildly. Then he got up from his own cot and sat down next to Pietro. They looked at each other, and Clint felt like he was drowning in the overwhelming oceans of Pietro’s eyes. Slowly, he leaned in and their lips met, barely brushing before they pulled apart again. 

Clint’s breath hitched in his chest. He felt Pietro’s hand gently cradling his cheek, then they were drawn in again like two magnets. But this time it lasted more than a second and Clint melted into Pietro’s touch, feeling warm despite the frostbitten air seeping into their room. Neither of them noticed the candle flicker out.


End file.
